We’re eating dinner. Allie has already deemed tonights meal inedbile and vacated her seat.
Paige is powering through, knowing that no dinner means no snacks. It hurts my Italian heart to waste food, and the kids well know it.
“How is it?” my husband asks me from his seat across the table. He has had a craving for chicken marsala, and made a pretty good attempt at it. In my eyes, anway.
“Well, can’t be that great. You’re not saying, ‘Oh my God, this is to die for!'”
When have I EVER said that?! “Well, chicken marsala’s not really at the top of my favorite list, but I know you’ve been craving it, so I can deal.”
“Yeah,” Paige chirps in. “What she said. I’m with her. Next time chicken marsala is on the menu, I’ll take a peanut butter and jelly sandwich please. Or leftovers. Of what MOM made.”
I try not to laugh.
My husband scrapes what’s left over on his plate, and then sits back in his chair, clearly having enjoyed the meal, despite popular opinion. He’s wearing a sweater with a zipper that goes partial way down the front, with a white tank layered underneath. Both shirts hang slack.
Paige glances over, and then quickly shields her eyes. “Oh gross, Dad! I can see your chest hair!”
Even my husband is smirking, despite the previous insults.
Next time we attempt chicken marsala, we’ll leave out the side of chest hair.